


Dog-gone

by Shadowesque



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Domestic, M/M, everything's better with dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 16:10:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10925346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowesque/pseuds/Shadowesque
Summary: Simmons and Grif get therapy dogs. Simmons did it intentionally. Grif...did it in a very Grif way.





	Dog-gone

Grif makes fun of the idea of a therapy dog at first. (“That’s because you’re an insensitive asshole,” explains Simmons.) First, what even does that mean? Sure, Simmons could _technically_ be called disabled, what with all the cyborg parts on and in him, but he gets around just fine! And how is a dog supposed to be able to provide, ugh, _therapy_ –isn’t that what talking to a doctor is about? What, is a dog supposed to bark if there are snakes around? …Or bats?  
  
(“It’s called anxiety, and it’s a very common disorder!” argues Simmons.) Oh, right, sure, and a dog is just supposed to magically fix something that’s kind of just part of Simmons’ core being. (“Wow.”) It’s not that bad! (“Wow, Grif.”) Look, a dog is expensive. It’s expensive, and they need to make sure to take it for walks, and who’s going to take it for walks, Simmons? Definitely not Grif. And therapy dogs are more expensive! Why not just adopt one from the pound? (“It’s not the same thing!”) Oh tch, whatever. His sister went through this same phase and he had to put up with her wanting a puppy, too. And a kitten. And a pony. And a raccoon. And a penguin. …And a shark one time, she was convinced she could put a collar on one. But the point is, he put his foot down about animals then, and he’s sure going to put his foot down about it now, too.  
  
So he’s not sure how he gets dragged along to the center while Simmons has some serious conversation with the lady behind the counter about what kind of dog he’s looking for. He’s not sure why he’s even here at all, arms crossed, looking grumpily at some of the labs and retrievers and border collies strutting dutifully by. Laaaame. Neither of them need therapy animals; they’re both just _fine_. They just have quirks. But Simmons is determined, and, well, Grif even asked their landlord about it, and dogs are fine. Smaller dogs. So, whatever, they could probably make a case for having a greyhound. He sees one down the hall. Simmons and a greyhound. He can see it. They’d practically look like twins, all tall and skinny and no meat on the bones and that nervous disposition.  
  
And sure, Simmons tried to suggest that maybe it’d be good for both of them. He’s going to punch Doc the next time he seems him; this is all _his_ stupid fault for suggesting _therapy dogs_ in the first place. Even to Grif! There’s nothing he needs therapy for that a big tub of nutella can’t fix. So let Simmons look at his dumb potential partners. It’s not like Simmons is going to care more about a dog than his boyfriend.  
  
It’s not like he’s getting jealous of the idea of being replaced by a dog.  
  
And then he sees… _her_. The most beautiful, ridiculous little elongated nugget.  
  
So by the time Simmons comes out of whatever office he was sequestered back into for a meet and greet and application filling out and whatever, Grif is on the floor enamored with a dachshund in his arms, all but giggling at the tiny ear smooches he’s getting.  
  
Simmons gives him a look.  
  
Grif just smiles up at him.  
  
***  
  
Two dogs, then. They come back in a few days, mounds of food in the pantry, some collars picked out, some leashes–they went pet store shopping together, of course. And argued about colors and styles and nearly got thrown out for scaring people with how vehemently they debated about what kind of beds to get the dogs. They must look like quite the pair.  
  
“So what made you change your mind?” Simmons finally asks, bulldog trundling along. “I was afraid you actually hated dogs for a while.”  
  
“What, no, tch, I don’t hate dogs, who hates dogs? I just decided that, hey, maybe you’re right. Maybe what we need are some dog-kids in our lives. To enrich shit. Y’know, enriching the environment with…enrichness.”

“You just like a dog that’s named after food.”  
  
“She’s a _wiener dog_ , Simmons. I love hot dogs!”  
  
“Just don’t _eat_ the dog if you ever get too lazy to move your fat ass to the kitchen.”  
  
Grif clings to his new dog tighter, holding her away from Simmons with a shocked look. “Nobody’s ever eating Snickerdoodle! Don’t even _think_ it! Don’t even _joke_ about it!”  
  
Simmons gives a sigh–of course the dog is named after a snack food–but can’t hide how pleased he is on the inside. Grif, of course, notices.  
  
“Don’t make fun of her name. What’s _your_ dumb dog’s dumb name?”  
  
Simmons looks at the bulldog, loose jowls and grumpy-looking face, as he hefts him into a crate in the back of their car. “Well, I’m not sure yet. He was Goliath while he was here, but I don’t think I like it that much. I’m thinking something more science-y. Like Newton. Or Dvorak. Ooo, or Fibonacci!”

“ _Nerd_.”

“I could call him Dexter.” He rubs the dog’s head. “Who’s going to be a good boy for me, Dexter?”  
  
Grif visibly shudders. “Ew, you are not naming your stupid drooly dog after me!”  
  
“Who says it’s after you?” sniffs Simmons. “I happen to be a big fan of Dexter’s Laboratory.”  
  
“Lame.”

“Maybe the serial killer Dexter?”

“Creepy.”

“Not everything has to revolve around you. Although if you get any fatter, things probably _will_ start.” He laughs at himself. “Because you’ll have your own gravity well.”

“I’ll say it again, Simmons: you are a massive _nerd_.”

***

It takes a while to figure out a routine between two new dog-parents and new dogs. Snickerdoodle ends up not doing well being walked with Fibonacci with Simmons, preferring Grif’s company. She yaps. A lot. When she wants to go out. She’ll even come over to the couch and stick her cold nose somewhere on Grif to better get his attention. This eventually gets him rolling up to his feet, grousing and groaning the whole time he’s hooking her up to her harness and takes her for a short walk. It takes time for even Simmons to realize that even short walks are good for them both, and Snickerdoodle might, in fact, be doing this on purpose.

Fibonacci is low to the ground but hefts his bowling ball-like weight against Simmons’ legs when he’s having some kind of new anxiety attack. That steadfast weight is enough to keep him, well, grounded, and he gives the good boy some attention until it passes.

Snickerdoodle burrows her way under Grif’s arm while he sleeps and gently licks his face. Fibonacci snores like a demon. Or like Grif. And there’s a time where Simmons doesn’t even realize he sleeps so much better with that snorting sound, that it used to bother him when Grif would stop in the middle of the night, worry him.

“Seriously, Grif, you thought the whole thing was stupid.” Simmons has Fibonacci across his lap, practically giving the pooch a Swedish massage. “And if you really wanted a dachshund, you could’ve picked one up from anywhere else.”

“Well maybe I wanted to make your stupid dog stupid jealous,” Grif huffs. It’s months down the line, and each of them looks better in their own slight ways. Snickerdoodle is in yet another food-based costume, and Grif is, of course, instagraming that shit for his followers.

“I don’t think he’s jealous of looking like a slice of pie.”

“ _Blueberry_ pie, Simmons. It’s one of the best pies of all.”

“You don’t want to admit you needed some help, too.”

Grif doesn’t say anything, but he gives his big shoulders such an exasperated shrug (and he can tell, because they’ve become experts at body language), and continues instagraming pics of his hot dog doggy (@snickerdog, of course).

“It’s okay. I’m pretty sure Doc’s happy that we’re both happy.”

“Well, whatever makes _Doc_ happy, I guess.”

Simmons reaches over with a long and gangly arm to try and wrap around Grif without having the move the content lump of dog from his lap. “Whatever makes _us_ happy, dumbass.”

Grif leans back, easier on Simmons, thinking on that for a moment. “We were not happy before we got dogs? Are we going to be crazy old dog ladies?”

“Yeah, Grif, we were happy, but now we’re happier. It’s kind of like…” Simmons hums in thought as Grif slides more and more into his arm. “Kind of like how I always wear long sleeves even in the summer because of my arm and the scarring.”

Grif snorts. “And I tell you to shut the fuck up and take off your shirt so I can see your stupid hot body.” His head finally hits bulldog butt, and it’s surprisingly comfy. The dog does not move. Good dog. “Ohhhh. Oh. So the dogs kind of help us do that thing where we tell each other to stop being so stupid and not worry. But without us having to do that.”  His face scrunches. “We _are_ going to be crazy old dog ladies, aren’t we?”

“Pretty sure therapy cats aren’t a thing.”

“Well I think you just haven’t looked hard enough, because we could _totally_ make a great pair of lesbian crazy old cat ladies, too, but minus the lesbian ladies part.”

“I’m going to smother you with this dog.”

“Aren’t you worried I’ll eat him?”

“ _Grif_.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for rvbsecretsanta for [starscream_squarepants](http://starscream-squarepants.tumblr.com/). And please check out [Pure Plum's fanart](http://pure-plum.tumblr.com/post/136404329966/got-a-few-sketches-from-a-livestream-i-did-this) I asked for of this!


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